


Be OK

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 04:30:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17891501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Loosely inspired by the song of the same name. Emotionally vulnerable Castiel and a first kiss [because I will never grow weary of writing our angel being loved and cared for as he deserves].





	Be OK

“Are you alright?” You slip into the space uninvited - chasing the sulking shadow of the seraph into the confines of the barren-walled room within the bunker claimed as his corner of creation. 

Claimed, that is, by Castiel’s current pouting physical presence and not by any other overt evidence of ownership. He has little use for sentimental objects, preferring simply to surround himself with the people he cares about - these souls are more valuable than all else in his estimation; and sometimes, they’re more stubborn than he knows what to do with. Now is one such a time.

Long stagnant dust swirls the air in the wake of his blustery square-shouldered retreat within, tickling your nose as you stand at the threshold in patient expectation of an answer. Dean knows precisely how to press the angel’s buttons; and you, well you generally feel compelled to give the frustrated celestial being whatever succor you’re able to provide in these moments where his best friend highlights past failures to prove a selfish point and win an argument. Not by you playing mediator, or taking sides, but by lending an empathetic ear - an ear that so happens to be attached to a body with a beating heart grown exceptionally fond of a certain and seemingly oblivious angel of the Lord.

He peers up at you from where he perches on the edge of the mattress; the mustard yellow woolen blanket tucks neatly into the corners - mostly undisturbed and most assuredly unslept in since he took up occupancy. Fingers laced in frustration across his lap, the unsettled blue pool of his gaze gives you all the answer you need. Still, since you asked, since he appreciates the concern more than you know, and since he finds great comfort in your companionship, the word, “ _No_ ,” grates from his gravel throat. The wet glow of defeat glistens at the brim of thick lashes at the admission.

Palm twisting around the cool metal of the doorknob, you step further into the room and blindly swing shut the wooden barrier behind you to ensure privacy from Winchester variety intrusion. Castiel doesn’t allow his stoic facade to falter often - doesn’t allow the flood of fear to smear his unshaven cheeks in front of just anyone; with you, the feelings emerge unrestrained. He feels _safe_.

Your heart hurts seeing him suffer. He’s not made to handle these human emotions. Not equipped to deal with the personal drama. He needs you to help him navigate the stormier seas. You suck in a breath, murmuring, “Dean’s an idiot.” 

It’s ineloquent, yet effective - a small smile flickers at the salted corners of his frown. A sniff of laughter flares his nostrils. “You always say that.” 

You really do. 

“Because it’s _always_ true,” you tease. “The guy wouldn’t know the sensible course of action if it walked up and knocked him on his ass. Besides, Sam knows you’re right.”

Except when Dean is on his high horse, he’s usually equally unwilling to dismount to consider Sam’s opinion either. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Cas mutters, looking down at his hands at the utterance; unfolding the fists, he stares at the calloused surfaces, studying the reddened creases etched on the rough pads from clenching them too tight. He believes it doesn’t matter, because while Dean may not be _right_ , the hunter isn’t _wrong_. The angel exists fractured between Heaven and humanity, a collection of ill-fitting pieces and ill-equipped to determine the direction of anyone else’s destiny.

“It’ll get better,” you reassure. Sinking onto the bed beside him, thigh touching thigh, you wrap an arm around him; your fingertips slide under the collar of his coat to pull his face to the hollow of your clavicle to dry his tears on your skin. It’s your ritual; his woe, merely an excuse to get close - one which doesn’t require bravery on your part to make a move toward territory you’re not sure in which he wants to tread because when he’s not bleeding raw emotion, his stolid features are impossible to read.

Resting his chin to your chest, he sighs, exhalation hot against the exposed expanse of your neck and, skirting his arms loosely around your waist, he relaxes into the embrace. With you here, it already _is_ better. He did not think it possible to find such virtue of solace in so simple an act. In fact, he craves this intimate contact - a closeness he has difficulty initiating outside these times of duress when you offer it to him freely.

Overwhelming gratitude motions his lips to pucker and press lightly upon your pulse point. 

A soft sound of surprise catches in your throat. The welcoming warm pressure of his mouth, moving in methodical declaration of devotion up the column of your neck to the sensitive border of scalp below your ear, blossoms outward, flushing your flesh and fluttering your heart.

Nose nuzzling into the sweet scent of your hair, suddenly abashed at his impudence in taking advantage of your kindness, of crossing beyond the boundary of familiarity into an expression of profound affection without your conscious consent, he awkwardly stiffens against you and withdraws, apologetic. “I’m sorry, I-,” he stammers. _‘Don’t know what got into me’_ would be a lie. _‘I love you’_ perhaps too honest. “I-”

Fingers flexing to secure him by the nape, you inhibit the distance of his retreat to a few inches. Laying your forehead to the slackening furrow of his brow, you lean in to brush your lips to his as you speak in a bare whisper, “Cas, it’s _okay_.”

Feeling the caressed truth of your words, fears forgotten, returned kiss careening into the inviting heat of your mouth, he begins to believe, for the first time since falling, everything really will be okay.


End file.
